Monday, November 18, 2013

Wouldn't You Love To Love Her?

I watch American Horror Story. Of course I do; it's twisted, mesmerizing, delicious and full of hidden psychological razors - I admire that. So having an old friend emerge from an episode was a warm and pleasant surprise - Fleetwood Mac's Rhiannon.

I was 3 years old when the song came out. I don't know when I became aware of it, but it was a song that played often in our house during my childhood. I remember my Mama, with her long brown hair that went all the way down to the tops of her thighs, singing the song as it played on the turn table. Strange faux gray wood paneling in our dining room, a wall of plants and the hum of the plant light behind her as she swung her hips from side to side with her eyes closed. She was beautiful.

Later the song always showed up at the oddest of times, times when being reminded of home, and centeredness and self were in tall order....Rhiannon would roll in from a passing car, from the jukebox in the corner (yes, I grew up around those), over head in a critical care waiting room, from the "classic" block on VH1 playing in the background.

So when it poured from my TV into my livingroom the other night I couldn't help but smile. It was as if a lifelong girlfriend had come bounding through the door to throw her arms around me and kiss my face all over.

And how right and wonderful it was the other day as Rot and I drove in the early hours with our coffees that she was on my iPod, had been there for years. He was sweet and let me hit repeat as the world began to wake and the fog slowly burned off around us.

October Country

...that country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain...